


No Room For Patience

by IAmAPastry



Series: The Challenges of University [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, I'm not sure if it can even be accounted for as graphic violence, If You Squint - Freeform, Jamilton - Freeform, Light Burr/Hamilton, M/M, Non-sexually, Nonbinary Character, Scarcely there, Some asphyxiation, Washingdad, but just to be safe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-07
Updated: 2016-06-07
Packaged: 2018-07-12 22:33:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7125133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IAmAPastry/pseuds/IAmAPastry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After another heated debate gone awry, Jefferson might have said something that he shouldn't have.<br/>Or, the time where Alexander Hamilton was possibly murdered and chopped up in Thomas Jefferson's bathtub, because no one could be patient enough to leave him be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Room For Patience

Alexander Hamilton was not tactful, nor was he tactful about being tactless. While cutting through the cascading mask of what a person was supposed to be, to the sore points of what a person truly was, in a waterfall of unfiltered words, he also would prolong the argument above its potential, often enraging -and even once, emotionally crippling- his opponent, to the point where he would have had his neck thoroughly wrung like a rag, had it not been for the interference of others. Indeed, the man doused himself in the horror and anger of all, only to project it in a precise flood, and had it not been for Aaron Burr, the poor man, he would have been feebly fighting against the assailant firmly pushing him into a literal flood of biblical proportion until no bubbles of life arose to the surface. In fact, many a time had Burr wondered, before the calm disruption that would soothe the most violent of men by the mere lull of his pristine baritone, before the protection of Washington, who had taken him beneath his wing at the prime age of twelve and would pull him back from each pitiful squabble escalating to a riot with a firm scolding, how he had ever survived with the astoundingly large mouth, which always seemed to hang agape to throw out another spout of searing insults to wound his adversary no matter their person and intention. Despite a plethora of theories and hypothesis, most involving the luck of a mad leprechaun carrying an infinite supply of four-leaf clovers and one even of constant resurrecting to continue being a nuisance out of sheer stubbornness, it still remained a mystery and, in all likelihood, will forever be until time stops turning.

 

Thomas Jefferson was, although somewhat similar, entirely unlike Hamilton. Although he as well knew how to push buttons and operate them precisely to completely destroy his rival, he could keep it wrapped up neatly into a single sentence and rarely held the possibility to be physically demolished after having verbally demolished the opposer. Mayhap it was his suave nature that trickled throughout the very last thimble of his body, or actual attempt to meet halfway on a subject -or, at least, the illusion of it that he created to satiate the other side of the argument- that made it a tad easier to accept his harsh truths. This, of course, had no effect on Hamilton, as, instead of being silently disquieted and bear only a slight resentment toward the man who had savagely beaten away at the broken rib jutting awkwardly out and presented it as if it had been a graceful surgical removal of a malignant tumour, would instead be spurred on and violently call out each of Jefferson's brutalities, as well as a handful of his mistakes, all the while counting out the reasons why the man should be treated like the worst of parasites upon society.

  
So, understandably, it came to all as a surprise that Thomas, who seemed to have the endless patience of a saintly being, finally broke underneath another heavy shower of arguments thrown wildly about by Hamilton, and stooped to levels previously unknown to his character. John Laurens had discontinued his attempts to call his turtle, smuggled into the lecture hall under his large coat for late autumn, on Lafayette, who no longer could bring themselves to mind or even notice the shelled creature's attempts to take a gluttonous bite out of their finger. Hercules Mulligan, with hand partially raised to reach another handful of chips into his mouth, suspended comically toward his wide maw and twitching lips, a pair of the thinned potatoes eloping to the floor whilst attention was diverted from them. Angelica Schuyler took this opportunity, all too relaxed for the situation in question, and reached into the crinkling bag, for if anyone were to accurately predict such a thing it was her, and it was of no surprise to her that even a stoical being as Thomas had limits that an aggressive creature as Hamilton could peel away layers upon layers until the thread was simply too thin to hold. Eliza Schuyler gave her a burning glare for the disrespect to the solemness of the room, an intensity as if she had swatted at the words which drooped above their heads, looming to devour them all with chaos.

  
“You're nothing without Washington behind you.” It hovered just a hair above, awaiting the sentencing action of Hamilton to call out for a war of the world to end all wars. All he simply needed to do was commit to that single impulse, following closely behind to his heartfelt pride, ready to do all to prove his abilities and silence the evil nag of Thomas' words. The people, haphazardly strewn about the room in a poor imitation of a circle expected it. The aura expected it, the ground expected it, the very air which passed through their lungs to die off on the tip of their tongues in words formed yet never vocalised expected the painful blow to simply murder the agonising suspension.

  
“All right, what is going on here?” In stepped the tall man, whose mere presence and taut posture inspired admiration by the mere swoop of the eyes across his impressive bearing, and with the murder of suspension came the second victim, expectation. As the two fell upon the floor as bloodied husks slowly draining into nothingness, so did the rest of the world gain their life force, and Hercules shoved the handful of chips into his mouth, both as he wished not to be the one responsible to answer, but also for he was shamefully aware that he would receive some entertainment out of the sight about to come. Lafayette squawked as a firm snap latched the turtle around their finger, and John continued to force it toward them as an act of revenge for stealing his very last doughnut hole. Angelica burrowed deeply into Hercules' bag of chips to thieve his food, while Eliza ducked down and returned to her notes, in the hopes that she would not be accused to be involved in any of it. Burr had assumed, from his forgotten corner of the room where he had observed and done nothing but observe, as was his wont, that Hamilton would have had his neck wrung like a rag before he even stepped foot into the United States. Never had it occurred to him that Alexander was the one to initiate physical fights, and solely believed he participated in them to defend his pride when challenged and to destroy the opponent's own. It had not been a belief of his, no matter the quarrels in the past that could suggest otherwise, that the small Caribbean man would be the one to do any of those things. He had been thoroughly surprised as Alexander, tossing aside the last shred of self-restraint he had scarcely been able to hold onto originally, threw himself at the towering statue that was Jefferson, frozen in place. They crashed to the floor, Jefferson expelling a pained breath as all of his air was cast out of his lungs, sliding down stairs in the centre of the room in which they had stood, stopping only in a slight hitch of a step that flattened into a plateau. Hamilton's hands clumsily scrambled to keep a hold of the neck of his enemy, slipping around the area yet never relinquishing enough for Jefferson to take a greedy suckle of air that he so direly needed, as they shook his head to and fro, banging it against the ground, bursting white pain from the back of his skull all the way to the very edges of his vision. White against red, he noted, as the bull-like rage entrancing Hamilton coloured his eyes in hopeful sights of crimson to stain his hands, blinding him of all else in his path other than what could grant his dark desire.

  
Until no longer could he claw at the throat of his nemesis. Until no longer did Jefferson need to struggle to gain breath, and he fervently rained it into his lung with a noise as if he was sucking it back in, and more possibility to do so was freed as the small, yet heavy, frame was lifted off of him, by none other than the one who had unwittingly given command for the event to wreck havoc.

  
“Alexander, what is the meaning of this?!” Washington raised his voice, however, it was so natural for him to be firmly soft-spoken in steadily calm authority, that it did not give off the sensation of shouting. Still it reverberated with such disappointing annoyance that it forced Hamilton to halt, if only by just discontinuing his furious attempt to escape his hold and continue his assault, and replace it with wild squirming instead. A narrowed glare struck by the older man, petrifying the reckless impulse of his heart, and Alexander could do no less than to still completely. He refused, however, to respond to the former inquiry, no matter how deeply Washington's glare dug into his heart and mind. The man, noticing that his venture would not be fruitful, skimmed through the room, none from the audience audacious enough to throw out a vote of volunteer. Not from a sense of loyalty, as the truth was evident in its general appearance, albeit missing a touch of detail, but simply as none cared to gather the attention of an authoritative figure of Washington's status, and presumably enter a territory in which being painted as a scoundrel was greater than coming out as at least a decent creature for explaining. The teacher huffed out something similar to a defeated sigh, before pulling Hamilton by the scruff of his neck toward the exit, casting a last glance at Jefferson to give him word of warning.

  
“Stay here,” He ordered the man, who had managed to clamber back up into a position relatively close to standing with the sole support of a chair beneath his hand. “Don't you dare even think about leaving, because I want to talk to you both in private, and you're next.” Jefferson swallowed, burying a wince at the pain of his damaged throat as he did, and offered a low nod with his sight only daring to go as far as to the floor around the properly groomed shoes. It made him wonder, in a stray thought to steal his attention to something of frivolous merriment, how a man could wear such thoroughly attended attire and still allow his son, adopted or not, to leave the house looking to be about a ruined beanie and a week of no shaving from begging at the corner of the closest convenience store. The steady tap of the formal footwear, falling into the distance, and finalised to have died out with the firm clatter of the door closing. Angelica, ever the opportunist, was the first to look up with a disapproving frown.

  
“That was low, Jefferson,” She hissed like a venomous snake, making him inwardly recoil, and he had to use a large portion of his own restraint to ascertain it would not be a physical action. “Even for you.” The last was said with darkened eyes, and nearly did Thomas fail in his endeavour of not showing the emotions which weighed down into his stomach with the warming cold of an iceberg travelling southwards. He himself, in spite of his pride and Hamilton's infuriating arrogance wagging around in his memory, knew all too well that she was correct. He pushed away the chair, rejecting its assistance, and straightened himself to chase a shadow of his common debonair nature, obtaining a flicker of it enough to fool the inattentive, melting a charming, lopsided grin upon his features.

  
“Y'all know he talks too much,” He said, sauntering up the stairs, looking far too comfortable in the particular situation. Angelica was right, that he knew, but it did not directly translate to ever admitting that to anyone. He was aware of his toss of the glove, and he intended to stand for it, no matter the consequences. “This oughta keep him quiet for an hour, before he can find something new to rag on for no reason.”  
“That is not a reason, Thomas Jefferson!” Angelica stood from her seat, blackened fire consuming her eyes, as she took on the appearance of a wolf, circling its challenger with a confident stride. A rabbit entered, as Eliza also rose, standing aside her sister, for she knew with her, or even on her own in a matter such as this, victory was ensured.

  
“It's still better than his constant ranting,” He scoffed in return.

  
“Thomas,” Eliza interjected, her warm voice dripping with concern, trickling down into a well-aimed cut of the air, similar to that of a mother. “You can't just say something like that. Yes, Alexander can be a bit loud-”  
“Cacophonous,” Jefferson suggested as a better fit replacement, in his personal opinion.

  
“And somewhat argumentative-”

  
“Abrasive.”

  
“And a little careless from time to time-”

  
“Purely reckless.”

  
“Sure, he can be kind of unbearable-” Eliza raised her voice to counter the deadpan comments of Thomas.

  
“A huge asshole.” Her altering of voice proved to be ineffective.

  
“Jefferson!”

  
“You're no better!” Cut Laurens in, his face blossoming into a rosy tint as he went chest to chest with the Southerner, who just so happened to be a fair amount taller than him, and, thus, gave it the vivid imagery of a chihuahua confronting a wolfhound with ear-shattering yaps. “Alex may be an asshole, but he's the good kind of asshole, at least, unlike you!”

  
“I wasn't aware that it was possible to be a good kind of asshole,” Jefferson snorted. “And if it is, that's just one type of asshole Hamilton doesn't fit in.”

  
“Fuck you, shitstain!” John spat, freckles hidden by the blush of the blooming scarlet rose upon his face, and trudged off, as no reason for him to stay existed other than to aggravate himself in mindless self-torture, and no availability of moments to actually brawl with Jefferson without trouble coming his way. Hercules, hoping to acquire another bag of chips after the last had been gluttonously consumed by the eldest Schuyler, both senior and junior apparently finding the room to be too filled with the vile air of loathing exhumed by enemies wishing the shed of blood and promptly following the smaller man, followed soon after the three others in the guise that he too did not desire to remain in the same room as Jefferson. Somewhere in the midst, Burr gathered himself to leave the situation entirely, for the inclination that he would rather simply not be involved in either side, and thought it better to silently remove himself before either side could twist him into a debate that would demand of him to choose one of them, and he slipped away quietly.

  
“John, John,” Whined Lafayette at the sight of the retreating form, utterly distanced from the dissension by the distraction throbbing a smart of pain through their finger with every beat. When he did not respond nor halt his pace, the French clumsily hopped out of their seat to awkwardly huddle after with heavy footsteps laced with agony, and, although they were in vain attempting to hold them back, perfect, crystalline tears ripened at the corner of their eyes, as the turtle still refused to quit their finger, and Laurens had apparently forgotten it. “Putain de merde ! Arrêt ! John!” And so their audible presence by voice, shuffle, and feet had died in a similar manner as Washington's, albeit with a tad less drama to the closing of the door, and now lingered only Jefferson with a conscience he could not quite successfully deny was anchored to a growing seed of guilt.

 

 

“Just what in god's name was going on in there?” The initial rage Washington had owned had died from a pyre to ember, but still it glowed in heat, and he was ready to scorch whatever poor excuses Alexander had to offer him, which often would be in the form of curses toward the always culpable Jefferson, -or, at least, according to Hamilton himself, as he fervently clawed for a substandard reason as to why the adversary constantly was just a tad worse than he was- and he readied himself for the prosaic routine to a tenfold of what it normally would be. Hamilton kept silent.

  
There was no eeriness in the silence of Alexander, yet Washington only found it to be unnerving. No, it was not the qualities of the silence which inspired the worry to thread its way into his heart, for it was hollow, only holding the steam of his simmering, onyx anger. It was the silence in its entirety. No matter the subject, no matter to which extent it bothered him, Alexander would never hold back on the excess of less than pleasant words he had to say of the matter, and he would not stop unless it had been drunk to its very last drop, even if his voice turned hoarse and his throat dried from the lack of water, or if he had simply been interrupted, which would then only spur him to continue later on. Alexander was never silent, and that disquieted Washington.  
“Alexander,” He said through a sigh, gaining no more attention than an irritated glance in his general direction, and the man was beginning to wonder if the other was simply doing it to spite him, something that would not be entirely new considering the things he had previously done purely out of malice, most to his enemies, and a select few even to the father figure whenever the two found themselves particularly irked with one another. He placed his hands upon the chair ahead of him and leaned closer toward the man opposite him, with little success as he simply was far too tall to do so without completely folding over it, the gap between them filled with a large desk that Washington had made himself all too familiar with during the passing of early morrows and late eves spent upon mounds of work. “Alexander, son-”

  
“Don't call me son.” Alexander shattered the fragile tension he had built in protection of his temper, to keep the simmer soon to build to a furious boiling from overflowing and scald anyone foolish enough to stand close to the pot as it overheated. This time, the insane sear targeted the man ahead of him with rapid, decisive steps, and he could feel the sting develop upon him before it had even come to be a phantom of a thought in its mind.

  
“Alexander,” He warned, admittedly more gentle than the man's discourteous demand, however, there was little less he could do to get his point across while not provoke a rare occasion of insult overstepping boundary from him. “I don't know what happened in there, but I will not tolerate violence in this university, no matter what.” Alexander, retreating once more to the aloof world of his silently brewing mind, stared off into space with a tugging ferocity in his eyes, waiting to be unleashed to full potential, as if the particles of dust circulating about the room had said something ambiguously offensive, and he was uncertain whether he should respond or let it be. Washington let out a frustrated sigh, lord knows Alexander could be difficult when he wanted to, which he had from the very beginning of their relationship, when he had been brought into his care kicking and screaming to his very last breath. He recollected those times, when he would stare at any meal George granted him as if it was intended to poison, and in disbelief when he came to the conclusion it was not, when he would sneak out to streak around the town like a cat, arguing with itself if it should not take that final step over the border and be submerged into the obfuscation of the night, before it, inevitably, returned with full knowledge it had nothing to push it forward and do so. It had taken months before Alexander had stopped being suspicious of every emotion Washington had in regards of him that was not negative, and a fairly expensive, yet well worth the price, alarm that detected whenever he was trying nightly to remove himself from the house without the father's permission. Washington, deciding it best to drop any infuriation he owned due to Alexander at the current, pulled out the chair, and sat himself down, still far too tall to be at the level of eye with him, but it was of no matter, as Hamilton was still disputing on whether or not to duel the dust for its implied insult.

  
“Alex,” Washington called out softly, for once in the conversation earning the full attention of the adolescent, if only through a concentrated, irritated glare. “What incited you to physically attack Jefferson?”

  
“He was an insolent little shit and got what was coming to him,” He spat instantly, a statement tossed out with a darkened lilt that showed no remorse, nor any future mercy should it happen again, and, by the deepening of his voice, the probability of it suggested that it inevitably would.

  
“Alexander.” The warning returned to Washington, taking upon an Elysian light to battle against Hamilton's darkness, possessed by the demons forsaken in the deepest abysses of hell. “That is not an explanation.”

  
“You got the general gist of it, I think that's explanation enough,” Scoffed Alexander in return, and turned to ride into battle against the dust once more. Washington would, of course, not have it, as he took to standing again, stretching to his full military stature that commanded respect. Alexander, of course, had never felt particularly inclined to give it to him in situations like these.

  
“You can't go and give in to every intemperate impulse that Jefferson inspires. I'm not sure if you can even understand the gravity of what you did.” Washington could feel his face heat up when he was met with even more disrespect through the seething in the eyes of Alexander.

  
“All I did was keep him from running his dirty mouth, and if he wants restitution because of it, I'll gladly let him try and get it.”

  
“You're talking like you think it's some sort of duel he's after. Do you even realise that this could be accounted for as abuse, or, if worse comes to worse, attempted murder? You might not care if he gets you in for life, but I damn well won't have you sitting locked up because of your puerile pride!” Washington fell from any authoritative serenity which would come so naturally otherwise, as his words became more desperate because of Hamilton's idiocy and his fondness of that idiocy in his life. “Son-”

  
“I'm not your son.” It dripped with an obnoxious blackness, an unwarranted statement filled with contempt for one being enacted upon another. Washington turned silent, nearly gasping, had not all air been stolen from him by the statement and deprived him of all ability to take it back. A pallor grew upon Alexander's face, his brow unfolding from the cross expression to eyes the size of saucers and a forehead exposed, as a part of him with a strand of reason desperately scrambled to steal the words back from the air and bury them underneath a pile of resentment against Jefferson to be brought up later, only to cry out in horror as it realised it was too late.

  
“Sir-” Alexander started, fervently hoping that there was even a shred of possibility to mend the damage he had just caused.

  
“Go home Alexander.” There was no mistaking the depths to which Washington's voice had plunged, balancing on a general reprimanding a disobedient subordinate and a father brought to the brinks of anger and disappointment time and time again by a devious child. “That's an order from your father.” It was stressed, as if to remind him just who had taken him in upon his orphaning, who had clothed and fed him when he had not a thread nor crumble, who had taken care of him every time he sickened and turned feeble, both in body and mind. Alexander remembered. He did not need to hear the word to feel the contrition of his fault slip its icy hands around him, consuming him from the surface of his skin to the core of his marrow.

  
“Dad-” Alexander stood tentatively, the lean, nervously fidgeting boy dragged to Washington's threshold resurfacing after god knows how long, and he recognised him by the owlish eyes carried in an man's face. Yet, Washington kept his resolve, as he pointed to the door, the sheer effort causing him exhaustion once the still waves of adrenaline wore off mere moments later on.

  
“Go home.”

 

 

When Jefferson had entered his apartment, he nearly collapsed by the tremble from his legs. Although the slight hint of guilt fading in the back of his mind still was present, nothing had shaken him up more than seeing Washington defeated. It was a sight unlike any other, for during the entirety of his career, Washington had been exasperated, fatigued, budging to the resistance of students when he felt the rare pang of a mixture of the two. However, never in his life had Jefferson, or at least for the semesters he had attended the university, seen the man enfeebled by the bitter taste of lost conflict. It was perturbing, in the mildest way Thomas could put it. Fortunately, he had managed to keep himself from being affected by the scolding from the man, and scarcely could he call it a scolding, before he returned home, carefully set his shoes in the rack, and folded upon the back of the sofa. The position, as awkward as it was, was strangely comfortable. He wondered if it would be wrong to take a nap like that, partially standing, face pressed against the pillow, arms lazily falling with the turn of his torso. He was particularly wearied that day, and his eyes were already signalling him to continue, as they slowly drew to a close.

  
His phone buzzed in his pocket decisively, nudging with every power of its being to gain his attention. With a groan, Jefferson raised himself back to a stiff stance, spoiling himself with a stretch, which answered with a satisfying pop. Slipping the phone into his hand with his natural grace, he stared at the screen, only to be presented with the sight of a man living up to his sobriquet brightly displayed upon the screen, dubbed by Jefferson himself, who scoffed at the familiar abundance of texts.

**15 unread messages from Spamilton**

Jefferson had half a mind to simply ignore him, however, he had been made intimately aware of the consequences of such an act, and he pondered lightly on whether or not he wanted to be awoken in the middle of the night only to be linked to the same video of a sheep screaming, which he always found himself too drunk in sleep still not to click and laugh at. For reasons unknown to himself and Hamilton, and by now never given thought due to its slip into their routine, he would always respond with a teacup pig frolicking in the grass, which, in turn, would cut out whatever Alexander wanted an answer to from his mind, and he would initiate a war of videos of cute animals, often spanning on for the entire night. Thomas had not quite recovered from the last session, which had delayed him from getting to Washington's class on time, and he was still convinced it was an elaborate -as elaborate as it gets with Hamilton- ploy to make him look bad. Another vibrant hum from his phone, and now the count was up to sixteen. He decided it was an appropriate time to deal with the problem, as he knew it would only grow if he were to ignore it. Unlocking the screen, he flinched, as there were fairly colourful words blaring at him as soon as he opened the conversation, which deterred him from doing more than skim through it and audaciously reply:

**TL;DR**

Hamilton, as expected, wasted no time to send off another text, and Jefferson was surprised to see it was a short one, which sent a chill dread to spread through his stomach, like the crystallisation of ice devilishly stalking the air as the night was to plunge into impossible cold, in which no creature were to be spared by its feral claws.

**I'm coming to rip you a new one, asshat.**

Hamilton, as expected, curse him, wasted no time barraging into Jefferson's apartment a mere bemused blink afterwards, not even caring to be courteous enough to remove his shoes sullied by the dirtied roads and subways upon which he travelled, as he stepped straight onto a newly purchased carpet. Thomas understood he was deserving of anything the man would do unto him, but Hamilton had no right to drag his beautiful carpet into this.

  
“Shoes!” He ordered brusquely before Alexander could step any further toward him, forming his arm like a spear toward the perfectly good rack of shoes Alexander had purposefully ignored in his rage. Unusually calm, and with but a glare in exchange for his demand, Hamilton stepped off the carpet and back onto the floor, where he removed one of his dirtied sneakers, worn and stubbornly mended with duct tape despite the possibility to get new ones.

  
And threw it straight into the face of Thomas, who clutched his nose just after impact, the smell alone enough to allow Hamilton a victory in this argument and any in the immediate future.

  
“Nice seeing you too, douche-nostril,” Spat Alexander viciously, unable to keep a mirthful grin from spreading upon his features as Jefferson removed his hands to inspect the damage, and a large imprint of swelling and dirt had been left from the very tip of his nose to just below the lining of his hair. Jefferson only responded with a glare, clamping his fingers back onto his nose when a light trickle slithered down his lip, inciting a growth in the smile of Hamilton.

  
“Jerkface,” Jefferson muttered after a moment of contemplation of what to say. Even he could admit that he was better than that petty insult, the clear sound of his blocked nose only adding to the ridiculousness of the jibe.

  
“Takes one to know one,” Hamilton retorted childishly, easily sinking to Jefferson's level, despite how derisory it truly was. “At least I'm honest about it,” He added, making his opponent knit his brow, as he did not catch the meaning of his words. It was not until Alexander's eyebrows darted up coquettishly that Thomas understood what he was implying.

  
“You nasty asshole,” He answered, a grimace tugging at his lips at the lewd comment.

  
“Considering how many times I've told you to kiss my ass, you should know,” Responded Hamilton, mayhap not his best comeback, but a comeback none the less, and a clear improvement from Jefferson's poor attempt at an insult.

  
“Did you come here for any other reason than to initiate a fatuous squabble?” Thomas sneered, having had quite enough of the bad quips they threw at each other.

  
“Such a big word for little Thomas,” Hamilton scoffed, and Jefferson let out a growl of a warning for him to continue or be kicked out. “But I have a reason to be here, and you should already know what I want from you.”

  
“And what, pray tell, am I supposed to know?” It was said somewhat defensively, yet he could not keep a sliver of the guilt he had suppressed from returning and merging into his voice. Fortunately for his pride, Hamilton did not seem to notice, as he lowered his dark eyebrows to match his seething glare.

  
“Jefferson, don't be an asshole, and you can get this over with far more quickly.” Although said as if it was meant to be a deterrent, it was no surprise to hear that little slither of excitement in Alexander's voice, an invitation for him to continue, a dare to defend his pride. Like Hamilton himself, Jefferson, albeit vehemently denying it, was no stranger to puerile fights purely to please the trivial troublemaker known as pride. He stepped closer to Hamilton, towering over him to the point where he could lean his head as if speaking to a child, and it did nought to soothe the growing agitation made evident upon Alexander's darkening features.

 

"You want an apology, don't you?” Jefferson questioned, a condescending lilt dancing its way into his voice, furthering Hamilton's anger. “Well, too bad, runt. Now, how about you just go home and cry about it to daddy?”

  
The aura plunged from simmering altercation, lowly boiling to prepare them of the quarrel to come, to an iced war of words. The very air of the room filled itself to its very fingertips with the trembling tension, waiting for someone to just pull a single string, and let the chill water tumble down upon them, and give way to a horrific battle unlike any either of them had ever had the displeasure of being part of. It was a mere tremor of a lip, a beginning to round it, unknown who just so happened to melt away enough of the ice to commence movement, and the line was tugged. The preparation was done, and dear lord it would not be sufficient for what was to come.

 

 

Alexander being absent was not a matter which concerned his friends, for it was a common phenomenon, particularly in situations in which someone treads past a line of his, which was pretty much any disagreement that turned somewhat foul. Neither Laurens, Burr, Lafayette, Mulligan, nor the Schuyler sisters were markedly worried for Hamilton once he stopped answering any texts he received. They were, in fact, with a tad of shame behind admitting it, somewhat relieved to have the hiatus in his otherwise ceaseless bombardment of copious messages that half the time barely made any sense other than the general emotion it was supposed to have. No, none were worked up over his sudden disappearance, as they had grown far too used to it, and they were instead watching a documentary on the French revolution, Lafayette the only one being fully attentive, while the rest simply stared on with lacklustre eyes and no willingness to fight to change the program.

  
Until a fairly obscene tune cut through the thick coat of boredom spreading across the room, and Laurens was given a threatening stare from Lafayette to turn off his phone before they turned him off in one way or another. John sheepishly pulled out his mobile and fumbled to slide the green icon to the side, as he recognised the caller id, and it was just as likely that he would decline a call from his own mother as he was this person.

  
“Hello?” He greeted cautiously.

  
“Laurens,” Replied Washington -Who else would rather call when texting was an available option?- and John knew, just by the uttering of his name, that there was something about Washington that just did not sit right with him. “I'm sorry to bother you during your free time,” He continued, lacking any quality that would otherwise define him, no longer the authoritative voice booming across the classroom. It discomfited Laurens greatly.

  
“May I ask what this is about, Sir?” Was all he managed to squeeze out of his throat, and he cringed as he realised just how rude he must have sounded simply cutting to the chase. A shaky breath from Washington, and a chill wave flowed through the bottom of John's stomach, settling into the wall like ice.

  
“Alexander isn't with you, is he?” None of Alexander's friends would worry when he was impromptu absent, indeed. However, this did not extend to Washington. It was not the first time he had called Laurens at the first sign of Alexander disobeying orders and running off to god knows where, yet, there would always be irritation when he interrogated the man, for he knew that he could not have gone far, nor would he remain gone for more than a short period of time. The fact that he was worried now, the fact that it made him so terribly anxious that it rejected all of his normal persona, that gave them reason to worry as well.

  
“No,” He answered after a short moment of silence, in which he had pondered about whether or not he was willing to lie about Alexander's position for the sake of a more lenient punishment when he did show up. Another shaky breath from Washington, morphing into a wearied sigh, and he could practically hear Washington fall into apprehensive despair.

  
“If you end up seeing him, please do tell me,” The professor instructed, a crumbling façade of calm that already had exposed the vital parts of his current emotions flitting about in his head. “And tell him to come home immediately. I'm not mad at him, I just want to talk,” He added, and, without the prosaic politeness of a word of farewell, he hung up, leaving John to wonder just what in the hell Alexander had done now.

  
“So,” He started, an oddly smooth drawl to the word, earning the undivided attention of the room, Lafayette with the urge to slip their fingers around his throat for once again interrupting the narrator, while the others were simply wishing for a subject with the slightest more spark than the endless droning on the television. “Alex's missing.”

  
“And that's news how?” Questioned Burr with a slight droop of his lips at the disappointing statement.

  
“It's news in that Washington's looking for him,” Responded Laurens.

  
“Again, how is that news?”

  
“It seemed serious this time, just...” John trailed off to collect his thought with a slight shake of the head, all the while Lafayette continued to burn their glare into his neck. “He seemed worried, like something had happened.”

  
“It was a pretty big fight today,” Offered Eliza, glancing dully to the screen, pulling a mien of disgust as a vivid image of a guillotine in use was shown. “Worse than usual,” She mumbled, lidding her eyes as she became more entranced by sleep with each monotone syllable emerging from the speakers.

 

“Do you think we should do something?” Laurens wondered aloud, earning a frown from Burr.

  
“And what would that be? We haven't the foggiest of where he could be.” Burr's statement earned a snort from Angelica.

  
“Probably over at Jefferson's defending his stupid male pride,” She scoffed, glancing over to the two men. “It's not particularly hard to figure out,” She said with a slight hint of a sneer, reaching over to snatch another of Hercules' chips, to which he responded with an indignant pout.

  
“So, we go over to Jefferson's?” Laurens barely was able to form the question before all but Lafayette and Burr had stood, eager to have something else than a mindless nag of a documentary entertain them.

  
“'Ey,” Complained Lafayette, as everyone meandered toward the door, only Laurens lingering to cast a glance to Burr, who he was aware had not found any enjoyment in the show.

  
“Coming?” He asked. Burr shook his head.

  
“I'll wait and see how it develops,” He answered. It was nearly that Laurens could not keep down a possibly offensive answer. It was too much like Burr to sit on the sideline with no commentary to add, only ever observing. Burr, however, was aware that he had that complaint, the very same Alexander had, over and over again. He did not confront him, as it was unlike him to do so, after all, and he returned to the documentary whilst the others took to searching for Hamilton.

 

 

“And just what exactly do you want?” Jefferson groaned, a clear exasperation in his voice, as if he had been forced to run in between the door and the back of his apartment, which he currently matched in physical description. He was stripped from his neat attire from earlier, down to nothing but a thin wife beater and his pants, wrinkled as if exerted, further evidence of that supposed exertion found upon his beading skin, while his hair was rumpled, and from his nose there was a dried trail of blood. It was not a sight which either of them were used to, and, frankly, it made him look fairly culpable of a crime of severe nature.

  
“Alexander's missing,” Shot Angelica, adding in a suspicious glance, studying Jefferson meticulously.

  
“Good,” Answered Thomas curtly. “Hope he stays that way.” He was just to close the door right in their glaring faces, provoked by his innocent comment, hoping to return to whatever business he was attending to, when Hercules nudged -Or, more properly put, violently shoved- his foot in the sliver of the open crack of the door. Hercules was not a man that had actively pursued being as large as he was, and at times he even wished he could shrink to the height of his friends due to the inconvenience of his size, however, in moments like these, when Jefferson stared up at him with a veneer of irritated courage to cover his need to cower beneath the scowl of the man, and nearly did Mulligan smirk when it shone through for but a fraction of a second. It was only that fraction of a second that he needed to use the sore point of his façade to his advantage, and he pushed himself through the narrow gap of the door, widening to let in the stream of people shove their way through, despite the colourful protest Jefferson offered.

  
“Just what in god's name do you think you're doing?! This is intrusion! I can call the cops on you!” He threatened, inciting no response from the others beyond the intensive search of the eyes each of them took part in, for there was no way he would actually do so while Hercules still was in their company. The thump against Laurens' foot, and there was the tarnished shoe of Hamilton. Or if he was up to something that would cause himself to be arrested in the process. John picked up the worn sneaker, holding it aloft as if he had found the final clue to a dense, tangled mystery, which he, in his own perception of it all, had.

  
“What's this doing here?” He inquired, attempting the authority he had seen Washington utilise in his booming voice, only to fail by his meek stature and tone. The perspiration seemed to grow upon Jefferson, a glimmer added to his forehead.  
“He was here an hour or so ago,” He responded, trying with every nth of his strength to appear innocent in the matter. “Came and demanded that I apologise and chucking his shoes and whatnots when I refused. That boy need some anger management, let me tell y'all that.” He forced a sneer to clumsily lace its way through his statement, in vain, for whatever guilt he was hiding became all the more obvious as he did. His eyes scattered over to Eliza, who was dangerously close to the holy sanctuary that was his bedroom. “Hey!” He snapped at her, and she jumped, an abashed flush to her cheeks as he called her out. Admittedly, this did not make him look any more innocent in their eyes, however, he would not allow just anyone maunder into his bedroom without permission, as was sensible for any creature.

  
“And where did he go after that?” Laurens continued his failure of a cross-examination.

  
“Hell if I know, I'm just happy he left.”

  
“So, he didn't go into your bathtub in scrupulously cut pieces of five?” It was here Laurens failed altogether. Not only was he beneath the authority that he was attempting to imitate, and all authority that came naturally was that of a protester crying profanities at a nearby police officer unable to fight back by law, his approach to uncovering the mystery was clumsy at best, and he, against his own beliefs, had utterly destroyed any chance he had to extract anything out of Jefferson by blatantly insinuating dismemberment. He realised this as the creased nuisance upon the Southerner's brow grew into the burn of offended pride, ready to fight tooth and nail to protect what was being attacked.

  
“ _Get the fuck out_ ,” He commanded simply, yet with a glaring anger tilting its way into his voice.

  
“So, is that a no on Alex, or?” Mulligan asked, as if completely unaffected by whatever bad air was currently swirling the room, which, if anyone were to be honest, was not clear enough to be discerned other than it was hostile, watchful, guarding of a matter privy to only one person.

  
“ _Now_ ,” Continued Jefferson, darkening significantly by the shade of his face. “Or I'm calling the cops.” He vaguely waved his mobile to show off the partially dialled number, and, contrasting their prior conviction that he would not have the heart to do so, they all knew that he was willing to go through with the call and order manhandle at best with entirely worse consequences at worst, if pushed enough. By the furious glint in his eyes, it was just almost enough. Little could be done in a situation similar to their own, however, they made certain Thomas knew they were not to quit their pursuit of the elusive Hamilton by the scrutinising glare they placed upon him as they filed out.

 

 

“Burr, for fuck's sake, for once do something other than stand aside!” Laurens' face was flooding with scarlet, blooming like a spotted rose which thorns had been stolen away one by one by the sharp blade of a florist. Burr was, for the majority of the part, unperturbed by the fit of the man, mainly for he had been acquainted with the very worst of its sides fairly early on in a fast-food restaurant at three in the morning after copious amounts of alcohol, and the only reaction he could instil was that of an awkward squirm as Burr was forced into the predicament he had actively avoided in the lecture hall and each minute thenceforth. He rubbed the bridge of his nose as he exhaled in exasperation, feeling his resolve crack at the edges, but still he had strength to remain strong, as he looked back up at Laurens, who was fidgeting restlessly in wait for an answer.

  
“John, I have made it my point not to get involved in Hamilton's and Jefferson's squabbles-”

  
“Or anything of matter, for that matter,” Shot John in response with a sneer. Burr wanted to glare, yet, he managed to keep the normal state of neutrality which he would don under the eye of the public image.

  
“And, although I will admit that Jefferson did cross a line earlier today, I remain adamant to let them fight their own battles. Despite the severity of the situation, I am certain that they will work it out the same manner they do any other dispute.”

  
“Or by manslaughter,” Snorted Mulligan. When a stare burning through his very core from Laurens and a cool glance from Burr was all response he was given, he made it a point to keep himself silent by shoving a continuous flow of chips into his mouth, so each word he attempted could not be articulated, no less actually made out to be a word at all.

  
“Exactly,” Continued Laurens, dragging his eyes back to Burr, who was struggling by now to keep himself from folding completely and do as requested simply to silence the freckled rose. “It's exactly like that. Jefferson did cross a line. Alexander did attack him. Jefferson did admit to Alexander coming over to his place demanding an apology, and getting violent. Jefferson did act suspicious the entire time we were there-”

  
“Perhaps you should not intrude in a man's home, then,” Burr interrupted whatever drama he was trying to build up, shattering what could potentially have cast him out the door and over to Thomas' apartment. He stood from his seat to his full height, which dropped Laurens from the towering stature when he was sitting to a demure height that scarcely reached his neck, and his only consolation in that matter was reminding himself that Hamilton did not reach as far as he did. “Besides, I don't see why I'm suitable to do that as well. Jefferson already knows that I've been involved in Hamilton's company, and yours, for quite some time. His reaction wouldn't change because he'd be faced with the same circumstances.”

  
“But he wouldn't, Burr!” Protested John, indignant desperation to his voice as he scraped to hoard every reason he could think of to convince the man. He bit his lips as Burr raised a brow, against his better judgement, to prompt him to continue, and John dragged a deep breath through his nose, as if preparing to release all of his honour in a single sentence. “I'll admit it. You're more trustworthy than us.”

  
“Hey,” Whined one of the bystanders, which no one could distinguish, for they were too caught up in their debate to pay it any more mind other than to acknowledge silently it had been said.  
“How do you mean?” Questioned Burr. Another inhale to prepare for loss of honour.

  
“We're hotheaded, all of us, to some level,” Laurens began to explain, waving his hands firmly to point out each notion he spoke of. “I can't go five minutes without wanting to punch him so hard his face'll be as accented as his southern drawl. Hercules, even at his sweetest, looks like he might do good on my wish. Eliza snoops, painfully obvious as well-”

  
“Hey,” It came again, still unheeded.

  
“Angelica can only hold a conversation so long before she starts sassing his ass. Lafayette, although having a pretty good relationship with him otherwise, I do not trust on the sole ground that they'd flirt and either end up in bed with him or joining Alex in the bathtub-”

  
“'Ey,” Snapped Lafayette, too engrossed in the documentary, this one specifying more about Robespierre than it did the French revolution, to give them more attention than that, and they snapped their fingers twice for them to quiet down.

  
“What I'm saying is.” Laurens paused momentarily to press his palm against his brow, as if speaking kindly of Burr was causing him a heavy headache. “The things that make you annoying, just standing to the side and refusing to take a stand in any conflict-”

  
“You're being truly convincing here, John,” Burr commented dryly.

  
“Is also what makes you ideal to go talk to Jefferson and maybe pry something out of him, without having the cops called on you.” John slipped his hand from his face, staring up at Burr with large eyes, brimmed with a request fervently asked as if it was that of a dying man. “Please, just put our minds at ease. We wouldn't be asking you this if we weren't serious about it. Please, Burr.”

  
Burr wanted to say no. He wanted to think of an excuse, and then hastily make his way out of the room, with only the glare of his friends to chase him. He wished he could simply have them forget what it was that they were asking him for, and resign themselves back into the couch to listen to the monotonous spiel of the narrator once again. However, a mere glance at Laurens had whatever resolve that remained crumbling to the banks of John's steadfast waves of arguments. He wanted to, he feverishly yearned to remove himself, but he could not, for the face of John carried such disheartenment that Burr could not have said the single word of rejection if he so attempted to spell it out loud. Soundlessly, he took two large strides to the door, turning the handle in his large hand, casting only a single last stare over his shoulder to prove he was serious.

  
“I am only going to ask him if he knows anything. I am not going to intrude, and I am not going to go above that. Don't expect anything else from me.” A grateful, wearied nod from John, and Burr wandered out the door.

 

 

He would not be earnest if he said that his reasons for being were not the slightest bit selfish. Burr did indeed hold a fine grain of worry for Hamilton himself, and he could only imagine what poor Washington must have for the man, and he was here on official business to retrieve information of him, and, if possible, him. He would not confess to the slight nag nibbling into the back of his mind, cautiously suggesting that mayhap Hamilton would see him, and, although it was still a fairly unbiased approach to it all, note that he finally had chosen a side, if only by a fraction. The one thing everyone, Hamilton painfully particularly, disliked about him. The one thing that turned the affection he had once had for Burr into a silent resentment.

  
But, he digressed. No, this was not of any such nature, he firmly reminded himself, as he knocked a gentle, steady beat upon the beautiful door of Jefferson. There was nothing but silence for a good few minutes, making Burr wonder if Jefferson either had taken the opportunity to leave and attend other business while he was not being pestered with ridiculous claims of murder, or if he mayhap just did not wish to answer, neither of which he could say that he blamed him for. He let another round of knocks grace the door, just slightly firmer, but not losing any of the gentleness he had used formerly. A distinct shuffle making its way towards the door -Burr could practically hear the antipathetic nature to every thud of steps- and the door swung open, revealing a still dishevelled, but somewhat tidy Jefferson. He had taken the time to wash away the nosebleed, and the swelling of the nose had gone down remarkably by the span of a few minutes, and the wife beater had been removed as well as his pants to be replaced with a satin robe of Maya blue shade. Burr feared, by the general appearance of the man, who creased his brow, first in irritation, but then in confusion, that he had interrupted him while he was taking a shower. He was just about to open his mouth and give him a sincere apology before Jefferson's confusion spoke up first.

  
“Burr,” Thomas regarded, adding in a nod, a tint of befuddlement lacing into his voice. Burr responded to his nod with one of his own, which almost dipped into a bow.

  
“I'm sorry to bother you at this hour,” Burr said, suppressing a heavy sigh as he spoke for the pure ridiculousness of the situation. “But, as you may know, Hamilton's absence-”

  
“Why does everyone think I'm involved in Hamilton's disappearance,” Interrupted Jefferson, practically spitting it as if it was a foul poison to just have Alexander presence in a sentence. “For the last time, I don't know where he is, and you can tell those friends of yours he isn't chopped up in pieces in my bathtub. Imagine sacrificing it for his bloodstains. Sacrilegious, I tell you.” Here, Burr could no longer keep the sigh from emerging from the depths of his throat, and he rubbed his eyes in irked weariness of the senseless chase of the truant Alexander. He saw no reason as to why it was a necessity for him to be involved, nor why there needed to be an elusive tracing for his whereabouts, as this was not the first time he had been afoot without prior warning of where he was to go and for how long. Burr had, at the very beginning of their relationship, thought it incumbent that he ran after Hamilton as he set off to another undisclosed location, but had quickly grown tired of its futileness, and the nonchalant response of their mutual friends had eventually jaded him enough to allow him to run off without supervision or much questioning upon his return.

  
“I understand.” Burr nodded sympathetically, for he had once known -and still did, to some extent- the nuisance of being the first to contact when Washington found Alexander was not where he was intended to be, for if anyone were to bring any vivacity to finding the man, it was the worry of a father with no knowledge of his son's location nor state of health. “I'll take my leave and quit pestering you about it.”

  
“See to it that you do.”

  
“Thank you for your time.” It was a short exchange of polite nature, delivering about as much as Laurens had anticipated and as much as Burr had promised. He turned as Jefferson, with an appreciative softness to his hand inspired by the civility of the man, closed the door. Burr did not leave, however, and only made it one hovering thought toward walking away before he froze. For someone called out to Jefferson. It was not in a harsh reprimand, so he was certain that it could not be Alexander, as they could be as courteous to one another as Burr could firmly stand for or against something in a large mass. The probability of it all was even lesser when he realised that it held neither hostility, nor impartiality, but a soft-spoken type of affection, to which Jefferson responded similarly. It could not be Alexander. No, it could not be, he repeated to himself. He thought it best not to linger, in case Jefferson would return, and, in lieu, ambled over to the entrance, sending a quick text to Laurens to inform him of the events, and he pushed any other improper thoughts out of his mind.

 

 

“Who was it this time?” Asked the man, evidently displeased for the second interruption of the day, voice ragged, yet muted by the door half ajar, and their prior activities. Jefferson, to the infuriation of the other were he to find out of the ego-boost he granted himself, felt a hint of pride by the quality of his voice, as he drifted back to the bedroom. Pushing it open, he was met with the furrowed brows of Alexander, the irked features only discredited by his light attire of the expensive duvet.

  
“Burr,” Answered Jefferson, a smirk sliding onto his face at the sight of the man, causing him to further the furrowed brows into a full frown.

  
“Burr?” Confusion knitting itself upon his features. “Fancy seeing him here,” He scoffed, distaste dripping from his words. It was not necessarily Burr's presence that inspired it, but more the underlying knowledge that the presence in general was, in all likelihood, not a choice of his own. Jefferson slipped into the bed next to him, stealing a part of the cover for himself. “How much do you think it took to break him?” Jefferson leisurely shrugged in response, pushing himself over to hover above Hamilton, a mere thumb's distance between them.

  
“Let's not discuss Burr.” It was said as a suggestion, but it was intended as a command, which Alexander did not appreciate in the slightest, and he nearly pushed off Thomas as he placed a kiss on his cheek.

  
“All right, how about we discuss you being an asshat?” He offered as a spiteful topic. Thomas worked his way down to his neck, lips teasing the skin before setting a chaste kiss atop it.

  
“Not particularly inclined for that,” He stated simply, a drop of vexation in his words, as he trailed down to his chest. Hamilton shifted uncomfortably.

  
“You are, though. Like, the biggest asshat ever to asshat in the existence of past, the present, and the future.” From the chest he followed down to his hip, teeth baring, as his crossness grew, enough to drag teasingly across his skin. “In fact, let's try to put it in thorough perspective. We start off with the fact that you are a giant ass, in the proportion of the full mass of a human purely as ass, which you then allow to be utilised by dickheads as a version of a hat to be worn again and again as some sort of buttfuck-Oh!” Alexander was interrupted by himself, silenced by a moan ripping from his throat, as Thomas pressed his lips against the innermost thigh, sucking on the delicate skin, just beneath where Hamilton truly wanted him, leaving a bruise in his wake as he lifted his head to grin in victory as he had Alexander, for once, shut up.

  
“You were saying?” He questioned, a mocking lilt, daring him to continue and lose out on what could be a wonderful night. Alexander, displeased with this development, sent him a heated, resentful glare.

  
“You're still an asshat.”

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is my very first fic here, and thank you for reading it! I appreciate any critique you may have, good or bad, and, otherwise, I hope you enjoyed reading it!


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